


Meet Me at Center Ice

by BeautifullyLovely



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (more honestly: feelings with porn), Anxiety, Dinner dates, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 03:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8781754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifullyLovely/pseuds/BeautifullyLovely
Summary: They've been planning this for months, now. Yuuri is the one who picks.





	

“This one?"

Yuuri looks to where Viktor is nodding a head. The restaurant window is bathed in a red glow, and the waiters that stride past are dressed in crisp button ups. They appear more fancy than Yuuri feels.

“It’s too classy.” He says, and shoves one hand further into his coat pocket. The other is too busy being twined with Viktor’s own. It is intimate, and it makes Yuuri quake, but Viktor himself had to offer his hand for Yuuri to clasp it. They are stepping inside each other, slowly, tentatively, and Yuuri will not give up the love on Viktor’s lips just because his pounding heart doesn’t want to behave.

They have walked what seemed like miles, Viktor nudging Yuuri in the direction of possibilities and Yuuri shooting them down one by one. He can tell Viktor is getting--not nervous, never nervous--less sure. That’s what Yuuri would say it is. It isn't anything as obvious as Viktor’s smile slipping, because his boyfriend knows how to keep that up through sheer will. No, it is in the lines of him, the way they don't flow seamlessly, cutting jagged edges where everything should be smooth. Yuuri would have trouble trying to explain it to someone else, but then Yuuri isn't planning to share, anyway.

“I told you, don't ask me.”

“Yes, you're right. Sometimes I need reminding.” Viktor’s smile calms, a soft soothe.

 _You don't have to be anything._ Yuuri had said. _You don't have to be the prince that saves the day. I just want you by my side. Your presence is enough._

It had hurt him to say. His chest had become one giant bruise, sure that once he revealed too much devotion Viktor would flee.

Viktor, who never looked away, not once, even though he hated teary people-- _keep your eyes on me_ \--had taken Yuuri’s words into himself and then, as if possessed, had taken Yuuri into his arms.

Yuuri forgets sometimes. In this one instance, in a complete one-eighty from what they’ve both known, Yuuri, awkward and pathetic, is the seducer, and Viktor, the ice prince, has been seduced.

It makes Yuuri feel infinite. Like he can do anything. Viktor Nikiforov might as well be called his kept man, and Viktor had sealed its truth with a kiss at Yuuri’s skate. It is enough to make one die of embarrassment and happiness at the same time.

Viktor, himself, and this overwhelming feeling.

“We’ll go in here.” Yuuri says, steps halting. Viktor stops with him.

“I like it.” Viktor says. He nods, a thoughtful tilt to the chin, and the praise slinks up Yuuri’s spine, snakes gently through his lungs. He feels lightheaded in a good way.

They get seated in the back of a restaurant where the waiters wear all black, slacks and polos, and the lighting is dark, a covering. Viktor’s smile cuts in half under shadow and Yuuri wants to kiss it, make sure it’s still whole and complete.

“What do you want?” Viktor asks. He has a menu held lightly between the fingertips, but his eyes aren't focused there.

Yuuri flushes. Blood blooms under the skin, like the worst kind of rash. Viktor has this way he gets, where his lashes seems longer and darker than they really are, his lips glistening like a coat of gloss had been applied without anyone noticing.

“I know what you’re doing.” Yuuri says, because if he says anything else who knows what will happen, what will unleash between them. He hates this moment of hovering before something incredible happens, but he can't seem to rid himself of wanting to stay here, in case.

A waiter bends over his shoulder. Yuuri’s bones shake, partly from the startle and partly from-- _Viktor, are we really going to do this?_

“Sir, what would you like?”

And it is so easy to think: _I would like you to leave. I want this man across from me, with his stupid light smile and too big lashes. I want him alone and all to myself._

The idea of actually saying it, forming his lips around the words and pushing them out, makes Yuuri want to hide. But there’s something slightly pleasant in the image of Viktor, eyes wide and mouth open, surprised in the best of ways. Yuuri had never cared about shocking people before, back then he was just trying his best to go unnoticed. Unnoticed means safe. It means a performance that isn't remembered for good or ill.

He used to think it would always be bad, if it was anything. Trying became conflated with eventual pain. But a Viktor caught always took work, and the result was increasingly becoming worth the risk. _I will crash and burn with you, or I will rise to heights unheard of, but I will not let the opportunity of you and I not come to pass._

Yuuri smirks, like he does when he is on the ice and at his most brilliant, and watches as Viktor reddens, so incredibly light, across the ridges of skin and bone.

“I’ll have the special.” He says. He does not know what the special is, and he does not particularly care.

The waiter leaves. Yuuri makes himself say thank you. His mouth is at a strange place between too dry and too wet.

Viktor snaps his menu shut like a finality. “I will be going to the washroom. You are free to do what you like.”

He is perfectly poised as he takes a small sip of wine, the drink making his lips blush. He places the glass down after one lone finger runs teasingly along the stim, stands, and brushes his coat flat against his body. He walks the room like a beautiful dancer. He glides as though on ice.

Yuuri watches him and thinks things. Terrible things. Things like seeing those eyes widen and that mouth parting right here, right now, the clinking of fork on plate shattered. And he would--Katsuki Yuuri bringing Viktor Nikiforov to a standstill, in front of everyone, and in doing so he could do anything. Everything.

But he doesn't, because there is a difference between knowing you can do something and _knowing_. Not to mention: Viktor might want to come back to this restaurant one day as a tease. Yuuri will only gift him the smallest of ammunition.

He takes one harsh breath, praying not to mess up up in a parody of himself, and pushes out of his seat. He doesn't look at the faces of those he passes, because he has lived with himself for more than twenty years and is able to draw the conclusion. The conclusion would be: him chickening out; them eating an average meal, before leaving. Viktor kind but unsurprised, and Yuuri left to wallow in a fit of unnecessary self-pity.

That is to say: forget that. It is not happening. He has skated for the Cup of China. He has cried and not slept and still, somehow, pulled a routine out from hidden strength, only to get kissed by the unkissable, the untouchable. He can bang his boyfriend in a restaurant washroom after spinning the idea between them for months.

_Oh man, this is the most embarrassing. I am going to die out here on the floor of a semi-nice establishment and Viktor will have to pick out my casket. And then find another skater to coach._

Yuuri swallows. The people rush by like a smear of paint, dripping down and away, and his hand finally grasps the door to the washroom, cold metal kissing his palm.

He is shocked to see Viktor, leaning comfortably against the sink, exactly where he said he would be. He forgets sometimes, the way they are. The way he is. Maybe that is why is he more susceptible to surprise. He hopes, one day, far into the future, that maybe his shock might settle into something smooth.

For now, he will take Viktor, in his wide eyes and open mouth, tongue peeking out in a brush of pink. He will take his own surprise at getting this much.

“You came.”

Yuuri locks the door. It slides shut with a click, and this is his own finality. “I wouldn't leave you here alone. I couldn't.”

Yuuri rushes, wraps his fingers tight in Viktor’s coat, and licks at the gaping pink of his mouth, trying to draw it inside himself.

He hadn't known lightheaded could feel good. That losing your breath could be like this.

“You’re shaking.” Viktor murmurs. “I want you to like this.”

“I’m shaking because I’m overwhelmed.”

“If you are overwhelmed--”

“I'm too happy right now. I don't know what to do.” And it is ridiculous to be that in here--a washroom, part of a restaurant Yuuri had been too nervous to mark the name of, grimy title settled beneath their feet with a temperature that was just this side of too hot. But he is; he is bursting with it.

Yuuri's fingers press to the nape of Viktor’s neck, the secret beauty there, and he leaves open mouth kisses all along the chin and cheek. There’s the gasping sound of slickness. He imagines the wetness of the kisses burn, that Viktor will carry them around forever, if he wishes to.

They breathe against each other. Yuuri lets the warmth of it all slink down into his ribs, curl up there, comfy, like Makkachin does at Viktor’s side.

“You don't have to know, just feel whatever you want right now. I will start us.”

 _That sounds like a line._ The thought is uncharitable. He may be inexperienced in a few areas--painfully inexperienced, some would say--but there is no naivety to him, especially not about Viktor. He, and he alone, is witness to all of the flaws that make up this person.

They kiss, sloppy with it, and some scared inner part of him lies down and quits, and Yuuri is happy for it. They touch everywhere they can get their hands on: arms, hips, ass, back. Viktor is slim and has small, beautifully delicate features, from his tiny nose to his pianist’s fingers. There shouldn't be so much to grab, but it feels like he goes on forever. Yuuri wonders about the other side of it, if he himself has also been transformed into some never-ending, sprawling thing.

Viktor pulls back-- _wait, don't leave_ \--before shifting to his knees, all smooth lines.

Oh. _Oh, please._

His nose brushes in a kind-cruel way against Yuuri’s crotch, like a light tap. The ridiculously pink tongue comes out to lick at the zipper there. Halfway to hysterical, a flash of nothing: _I'm going to ruin these slacks if he’s not careful, and I just bought them. Crap._

“Yuuri,” Viktor breathes. He rubs his cheek against Yuuri’s leg, like a dog seeking affection. “I want you. Do you want me?”

“A stupid question.” Yuuri laughs, voice breaking into shards. He unzips his pants and pushes them down around his knees, presents himself against the cold back wall. Viktor’s legs, covered in a stunning midnight black pair of slacks, shift imperceptibly on the off-color tile. He doesn't look like a man to get dirty, sweat an invisible blur in his competition videos. But he’ll do it for Yuuri. Get on the ground and mess himself up for him, mouth open. Mouth always open, waiting.

“Give me a second.” Yuuri pants. He very much would like this to last longer than expected, for them both.

Viktor’s eyes shine like twin crescent-moons, hair falling in an awkward tumble over his left eye. Yuuri looks at that crown of the head, at the small, soft place where the hair is thinning. He is reminded of how Viktor is hilariously and mundanely attached to those hundred strands, and feels--

“I l-like you. So much.”

Viktor knows. He smiles against Yuuri’s thigh, pressing pink-tongued kisses over the sensitive folds. “I like you too.”

“I know.” Yuuri says. He grits against the feeling, so complex and inescapably mature, shying from the way it turns this dirty washroom into something of a hidden sanctuary. “You can--now.” He adds. He feels a fool, a loved and cherished idiot.

“Alright.” Viktor takes him in his mouth, that open mouth, and it’s too hot. Yuuri is burning without any flames licking his skin.

“Keep going, please.” He says, watching Viktor. Viktor, who has his eyes closed, looking deep within himself, even as his lips move on Yuuri’s cock. “Keep going and--open your eyes. Look at me. I want to see you.”

Viktor does, at first only because he is startled. Yuuri can sense it; he can sense it in the way Viktor’s tongue stumbles over his cock, and he doesn't really know what to do with that, how it makes him want to crush himself to Viktor in a hug that lasts forever.

There’s a moment of suspension. It’s the skate out to center ice, when Yuuri knows the touch of smoothness under his blades, the size of the yawning crowd, the inevitable. The moment right before something amazing happens. He wants to stay here, with Viktor’s wide eyes and mouth hanging shocked around his cock. He wants the flush on both their skins to be cemented, the rush in their ears captured, for prosperity’s sake. He wants this, right here and right now, and for once it is not because he is worried about what will come after.

Viktor blinks, the moment breaks-- _like ice, of course I would create a bad pun out of this situation_ \--and he licks in a circle, starts a gliding movement back and forth, taking time to highlight specific areas with his lips and stupid pink tongue. His eyes are locked onto Yuuri’s, like it’s hurting him. They water at the edges; the focus too much.

 _You don't have to. If you can't, yet. It’s OK._ But Viktor pushes against Yuuri’s push, meeting him in the middle, like always. Yuuri is pretty sure there’s an unspoken rule against becoming teary while having your cock sucked, and he plans to stick to it.

Still: _I love you. So much._

Viktor’s cheeks are a blotchy red, puffed out with cock, and they look rash-like with his fair skin. It’s attractive in its unattractiveness, and Yuuri wants.

_I know you. I know you were expecting me to be too overcome--to shut my eyes to the sight of it because of this feeling. You, me, and even more: me, standing with my back to the wall, you, on your knees, in service. A whole world right outside these doors. But I won't, I can't. I want to see you vulnerable in that way you won't allow of anyone else. I want to catalogue every minute shift of you in sex and dissect it like I would any performance. Because this is a performance, right? A performance made for each other. I want to see the way it touches your soul._

Viktor’s eyes are glassy now. The water is dangerously close to slipping. It could be from the task, the strain of the eyes in focus. It could be the emotion of it all, or even newness of everything coming together at once. Mostly, Yuuri thinks, it is all of these things, little pools of water that became a flood, faster that anyone, especially an ice prince like Viktor, could ever expect.

_You look like you’re overwhelmed. You look like you could die of joy._

“I’m going to come.” Yuuri says. “You are free to do what you like.” There is a beat, two, and he comes like that, laughing with a voice of broken shards, as Viktor’s eyes glare up at him. Pouty, having his words stolen from him and reused--better than they were before.

He stands, throat swallowing against the taste. He looks absolutely confused, part-way to awe and part-way to anger. It’s heavy, and the weight of it makes Yuuri shake, but he bares it proudly.

“Always, you surprise me.” Viktor murmurs. He grabs Yuuri at the waist, brings them together in inelegant touch. Yuuri’s cocks flaps between them, a limp salutation.

He laughs again, quieter. Remembers where they are. “There will come a time when I can't, you know.”

“As long as you’re here, we’ll figure something out.” A promise. A promise that he continues to make, again and again.

He wants. “What do you want?”

“I want you to touch me.” Viktor tells him, throat scraped raw. It might be a line; it could be something he’s said a thousand times before. Yuuri finds it strangely simple to swallow. This is right now, Viktor is saying these words and meaning them. _I really don't care if I wasn't the first here, but I will be the last. That is my promise._

“Your hand.” Viktor says. Yuuri gives it.

They end up pressed together, Viktor facing the toilet. It is very romantic.

They’re both laughing at it, at themselves, this place, and the fact that this world, in all its insanity, ever gave them cause to meet.

Viktor’s cock is long and slender, and, unsurprisingly, very pretty. Yuuri appreciates it, could stare at it for hours. It is like Viktor himself. He snuffles into Viktor's shoulder as he tugs at him, because his is not naive but maybe, maybe, he is still a bit immature.

“You are laughing at me.” Viktor says. His head hangs on Yuuri’s shoulder as if it is the only thing keeping him to his feet. How he knows one laughter from another, Yuuri would have trouble explaining. For someone who is so absent-minded, Viktor is remarkably perceptive. Yuuri supposes that might be surprising to some people.

It stopped being surprising to him long ago, when Viktor turned to him, a previously unforeseen glacier deep in the back of his gaze--the waters there seemingly going on forever--and told him with subtlety to treat Minami as he deserved: _How can someone who can't motivate others motivate himself?_

_Viktor, I want it. I want you--especially, maybe even the most--when I've learned thoroughly, and there are no surprises left. Show me every glacier and I will meet it head on. I can motive you, if I push myself, if you continue to push me. When we move together this way, I feel as though anything is possible._

Yuuri presses his cheek to Viktor’s back, listening for the quiet way he comes. He bends like a dancer, as fluid as air. The hitch at his shoulders, the off-beat patter of the heart, would go unnoticed if one didn't put in the effort to sense it.

Yuuri put in the effort; he will continue to do so as long as he is able.

Together, they take a few shattering breaths. They move. Yuuri’s hand unsticks itself from the lining of Viktor’s coat. He rubs his fingers together as if to preserve the feeling.

The world rights itself again, and Yuuri watches as Viktor’s slight smile shifts back into place. It is a pleasant look, that grin. It isn't a lie because Viktor is a good person and isn’t capable of such complete fabrications. He puts that smile on for good reason, making even those who dislike him incapable of loathing. And yet: there is melancholy in Yuuri as he watches it bloom.

He steps closer, legs full of jelly, and presses a final kiss over Viktor’s lips while they are still malleable. Viktor accepts it, biting Yuuri lightly in a tease.

“I’ll wait for you.” He says. “Come meet me.” And he slips out, door clicking shut behind him.

Yuuri can picture him, walking. His smart dress shoes sparking gently at every touch of ground. The effortless way his legs lead him in a waltz back to their table. He’s as gorgeous and immovable as crystal, the kind of natural occurrence that is birthed once in a generation. The epitome of look but don't touch--or he would be, if not for the red flush Yuuri put there.

Yuuri huffs, washing the sex scent from his groin and armpits and neck. That scared inner part of himself wakes up, as it always does, and it paws at his slacks, tells him to panic.

There is a lump in his throat, sure. There is the belief that something terrible will happen because that is a part of him, constant, the skewing of reality until it fits his fears. But somehow he still knows the truth, in a deep down place that even he can't force into something wrong and awful: Viktor is waiting for him at the table, with that flush on his cheeks. He is happy, and glad to be here with Yuuri, because he said so, and acted so, again and again. A continuous and lasting truth.

Yuuri walks out proud and utterly, inconsolably, embarrassed. He is a pot overflowing, and his face must be red, the color of alarm. He thinks he really might die on the way to the table, and silently hopes the funeral won't be too big of a hassle, that Viktor would take a seat by his family and attempt not to upstage his mother.

He makes it, though. He makes it, as he knew he would. His fingers a tingly numb and his mouth too-wet and too-dry, the people around him still moving, the world still turning, and Viktor--exactly where he said he would be.

“We should do this again sometime.” He says, his mouth open in the shape of a heart.

“I know what you’re doing.” Yuuri says, exhausted. Even he doesn't have everlasting stamina.

They end up dining together well into the night. Yuuri’s nerves settle, and the taste of good food makes a happy curve along his tongue. Viktor tells Yuuri all about Russian meals, the unique way the meat is spiced, the longing he had for it on competition days. Yuuri asks him if he still wishes for it before his own competitions, and Viktor tells him yes, more than ever.

Their fingers brush under the bell chime of the restaurant’s doors. The night air laps at the skin, soaking in as if to live there. It is cold, too cold for most, but they are people born to the ice, so the chill feels just this side of right. With every touch of hands, Yuuri sees something undefinable. A blurriness out in front, a secret he is not yet witness to.

But it’s there, and it’s not going away--visible under the scattered lights, the crowds, the frost soaking comfortably into their bones--something amazing, inevitable. It looks a whole lot like the future.

Yuuri twines his hand with Viktor’s, stares it right in the eyes, and grins.


End file.
